


Scenes From the Protectorate-NE

by Skrattybones



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:06:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28464303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skrattybones/pseuds/Skrattybones
Summary: A series of scenes and conversations from the PRT/Protectorate NE branch based out of Halifax, Nova Scotia.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	Scenes From the Protectorate-NE

Built on the foundation of the original Halifax Citadel, the reinforced glass skyscraper that housed the Parahuman Response Team and Protectorate branches of the Northeast, as well as the rarely used Guild offices for the entire Maritime region offered an incredible view out into the harbour, Georges Island and McNabs Island fully visible before the wider Atlantic. 

Near to the top of the tower stood two costumed figures; the first, dressed in a professionally tailored blue and white bodysuit with domino mask stood at parade rest, while the second, dressed in surplus BDU pants and a faded t-shirt leaned against the floor to ceiling glass window, groggily sipping from a Tim Hortons to-go cup. 

“So, wait. Just.. back up a minute, Northstar, ‘cause I think I need a little bit more context here. You, uh. _We_ have a friendly rivalry with Accord. Accord, the supervillain down in Boston? Not, say, Accordion, that indie hero up in Cape Breton? You’re actually talking about Shorty McMurder himself?”

The first man -- Northstar, while in costume -- snorted out a small laugh as he continued to watch the sun rise up over the horizon. “Okay. Context. So, back during the first World War there was a bit of an accident in the harbour, here. A French cargo ship packed full of explosives and a Norwegian ship collided right over there,” he said, turning and pointing vaguely deeper into the bay. 

“Basically smack under where the MacKay Bridge is, right? So, the French ship caught on fire, the fire hit the explosives, and the whole thing detonated in the largest man-made explosion on the entire planet at the time. Wiped out everything in almost a whole kilometer, flattened trees and messed up train tracks further out, and rattled and shattered windows all up and down the coast, and even caused a tsunami that wiped out Tufts Cove.

They made a commercial out of it, y’know? One of those Heritage Minutes,” he continued, shrugging slightly. Everyone around these parts had probably heard the story of Vince Coleman1.

“So, anyway. Big tragedy, the whole province gets to work helping out. Middle of winter, right? Cold’s gonna kill people too if nothing gets done. New Brunswick lends a hand, bit of help down from Quebec, yeah? But we got a pile of assistance from Boston, too. Massachusetts stepped right up with zero hesitation. Halifax gets back on its feet, World War 1 ends, and we send a giant Christmas tree down to Boston. As thanks. You know how it is around here, Portaline. Being nice and neighbourly.”

The second man -- Portaline, while working -- nodded, then paused, and sorta wiggled his coffee back and forth in a so-so motion. “I mean, I get the idea, but you don’t really see it much these days,” he said.

“Oh, sure, capes kinda screwed everything up on that front. But, anyway. So we sent a tree. Boston liked the tree. That was that, up until the seventies, when Big Christmas Tree decided to send another one, and make it an annual thing. Boston liked that idea, too, so now our giant Christmas trees are the official Christmas tree of Boston. Nice feelings all around. Except,” he said, pausing to grin slightly. “A few years ago, oh-eight, I think, the one guy who gets paid to be the guy who picks out the tree had a wee bit of a hangover. Picked out a tree that looked fine from one angle, but was terribly lopsided from another. Bald spots and bare branches. Nothing a bit of decorating couldn’t handle, maybe a bit of pruning. Easily solved problem, is what I’m saying.

Except Accord is down there, now. The Boston Games went down, Accord was still standing, and as it turns out he’s got a wee touch of the crazy. Hates imperfection, or something like that. So he sees this tree getting set up on the Common, digs into the who and the how, and puts a hit out on the guy who picked the tree. The Guild catches wind of the bounty, but protecting a normal guy isn’t really their deal, so they pass the information along to us.”

Northstar paused and gave a rueful shake of his head. “We were expecting maybe one or two money hungry hunters to take a few pot-shots at the guy. Instead we had a running battle all the way down the 103. It was absurd. Picked the guy up in Hubbards, no issues. Head for the highway, and all of a sudden we’re catching bullets and laser beams. Head the other direction, and wind up fending off mercenaries and other less reputable capes for almost three hours, before we hit Yarmouth.

Come to a standstill, fight it out, knock ‘em all out and toss ‘em on the Yarmouth Ferry. They wake up on the way back to Portland, little bruised, little battered, but that’s the end of it, we figured. Get the guy home, keep a watch on his house for a few days, but nothing else happens, so we call it a success.”

Portaline simply raised an eyebrow, before he drained the last of his Double Double and tossed it through a small, transparent portal. Down the hallway a partner portal manifested, bouncing the now empty cup off the wall and directly into the trash can. “I wouldn’t be here if that was the end of it.”

Northstar nodded, another chuckle escaping from deep in his chest. “Right. So. A year goes by, another tree gets sent, except this time a letter gets sent with it. Turns out the tree guy knows how to hold onto a grudge with the best of us. He picks out a tree that to almost anyone looks perfect. But this guy has an eye for Christmas trees, and Accord has the best eye for exact detail in North America, probably. So this tree has tiny, utterly meaningless things wrong with it. A higher-up branch is a few centimeters longer than the branch below it. A few needles started to brown early. A slight bend in the trunk to make the whole thing just this side of unsymmetrical.

All detailed in this letter, sent with the tree but addressing Accord specifically. Scuttlebutt was that Accord flipped his lid, doubly so because basically nobody else could figure out what the heck he thought was wrong with the tree. Doubled the bounty on our tree guy, and we had another rush of mercenaries and fortune seekers trying to off this one, unpowered guy. Utter lunacy.

See, tree guy spent the year setting up, right? Turns out, not so unpowered. Guy can make some pretty brutal traps, and they’re all camouflaged, but it basically only works in forested areas. Here’s the kicker, though. His traps are a shaker effect, and his range caps out at however big the piece of contiguous forest he’s standing in is. Check a map, Simms Settlement is basically nothing but forest.”

Portaline reached a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, eyes closed in a drawn out wince. “I can’t imagine that went well for anyone, eh.”

“Not really, no,” Northstar agreed. “Pine Pit -- that’s what we ended up calling tree guy, officially -- his traps are just this side of fatal. Horribly maiming, but generally not immediately fatal. We went down to protect the guy, but he used himself as bait and led the whole pile of bounty hunters on a merry chase through the trees. We took a number of them down ourselves, but he got the rest. Then it turns out he recorded the entire thing, and made sure that all of his traps were asymmetrical. Pit edited the footage to highlight every trap and exactly how off they were, uploaded the whole thing to PHO, and tagged Accord.”

“Oh, Jesus,” muttered Portaline.

“Yeah, so, anyway, despite that, Pit doesn’t actually do any kind of villainy. Eleven months out of the year he just works his job with Natural Resources and remains a tax paying, law abiding citizen. Absolutely no interest in joining our branch of The Protectorate, and I’m sure you’ve read the dossier on the province but it isn’t like we have anything like villain gangs roaming about. There’s a fair few here in Halifax and Dartmouth, one in Yarmouth, one in Truro, and everything else is mostly independent. It’s the problem with the Maritimes; lots of room, nothing really worth taking.

But every now and then we get something like this. Pure spite fueling a years long holiday themed grudge match, and neither side willing to just leave the other side alone.”

“So, okay, I’m up to speed. I guess. But, uh. Why am I here, specifically? You guys have handled it so far, based on the reports. Why the call for reinforcements this year?” asked Portaline.

“Simple enough reason,” said Northstar, with a sigh. “Accord upped the bounty again this year, so it’s gone above the one million dollar mark. That’s the baseline for when the capes with serious powers start coming out of the woodwork. Nobody is gonna sneeze at a million bucks, and Accord’s reputation paints him as a man of his word, if nothing else. Anybody manages to off Pine Pit, they’re an instant millionaire.”

“No, I mean, I get that. But why call in so many people? It’s callous, I know, but it’s just one dude, and he’s kind of bringing it on himself at this point,” Portaline remarked.

Northstar didn’t answer for a moment, eyes sweeping across the parts of Halifax visible from where they stood in the tower.

“It’s like this. Halifax is split into districts, right? You’ve got the North End, which is home to more of the poorer parts of the city. Local police catch a lot of North End criminals down in the South End breaking into cars for loot, and despite the South End tending to be more well off, you see the reverse happen as well. But if someone from, say, Amherst, were to swing down here and go on a little robbing spree you’re gonna find North End and South End boys banding together to put them out on their ass.

Same thing happens all over the province. Down around where Pine Pit lives you’ve got all these little villages. Hubbards, Chester, New Ross, Chester Basin, and Western Shore, and when the little kids end up not so little they all get funneled to the same high school, and they all have rivalries with each other. There’s probably one cape per village, and it doesn’t matter if they’re a hero or a villain, they will smack down any of the others out of pure spite and rivalry. But every now and then a crew from Bridgewater, Mahone Bay, or Lunenburg will get a bit uppity, and swing down towards the South Shore to show them who the boss is, and without fail all those little villages will spread the word around, band together, and it always turns into a clusterfuck. Look up the Hundred Man Brawl in the Mall from last Canada Day, if you get a chance.

Anyway. The point is that Halifax and Boston have a great relationship. Lots of similar ancestry. Similar cultures. All that good stuff. But those little rivalries I mentioned? Well, Accord ain’t from Nova Scotia, and he’s trying to stir up some shit with a Nova Scotian. Doesn’t matter that Pine Pit is causing it, really. If Accord lived here we honestly could probably find better things to do with our time. But he doesn’t, and Pine Pit does, so the lot of us are pulling everyone together that we can to lay a beat down on all the people showing up because of Accord.”

Portaline grunted out an acknowledgement at the reasoning, but remained silent as Northstar’s phone chimed out a notification. “Well,” said Northstar, as he pocketed the phone. “That was Moonshiner. Just saw Pine Pit posted a photo to PHO of a tinkerteched up mercenary hanging from his feet in a human-sized rabbit snare. Looks like we better get going.”

“Why not,” muttered Portaline as the pair headed for the elevator to the roof. “Not much better as a Christmas tradition than clowning on supervillains, I guess.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Heritage Minutes: Halifax Explosion ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rw-FbwmzPKo )


End file.
